


The Nine Doors

by NaughtyPastryChef



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom Dean Winchester, Dirty Talk, Everyone Wants Dean Winchester, Horror, M/M, SPN Eldritch Bang, Suspense, Top Dean Winchester, see notes for spolier tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-12
Updated: 2019-10-12
Packaged: 2020-12-07 19:28:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20981162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NaughtyPastryChef/pseuds/NaughtyPastryChef
Summary: Dean Winchester, renowned book hunter, is called up in the middle of the night by one of his wealthiest clients, Alastair, and enters into something much more dangerous than hunting down an infamous book.





	The Nine Doors

**Author's Note:**

> So much love to my amazing artist, Phoenix1966, I can't even tell you how excited i was to work with them and the ART! it's amazing, be sure to follow the links to her work to leave her lots of love and kudos, yeah? https://phoenix1966.livejournal.com/34512.html  
So much love and adoration to Monica for making this legible for y'all. Your're amazing  
Big thanks to Orange At-AT for unparalleled alpha reading. They helped me fill in the blanks where I knew what happened but the reader did not, so thank you 1000x.  
Thanks to Em, Amanda, K and everyone else who let me talk about this fic without spoiling it for them.  
Please see the note at the bottom for additional spoilery-type tags.

Dean Winchester awoke to the sound of a ringing phone. He fumbled on the side table for his glasses, the trusty old wire rims, when he realized they were still hooked around one of his ears. He righted them on his face and reached for the phone before his machine could pick up.

“Winchester”

“Ah, good, Mr Winchester. I do hope I haven’t caught you at a bad time?” Mister Alastair’s voice came through the tinny and cheap phone clearly, his accent reminding Dean of home and America and things he’d rather not think about.

“Uh, no sir. How can I help you today?” Dean was a specialist in a very narrow field; a book hunter, some called him. He had a small list of nauseatingly rich clients and they would contact him when a book that struck their fancy came on the market, or rumors of it surfaced. While his job was frequently interesting, it was rarely easy.

“I don’t want to talk on the phone. Meet me at my estate in an hour.” Alastair’s tone brooked no argument but Dean squinted at the clock in the corner of the room. 

“It’s midnight.” He didn’t question, he knew better than that, but made it into a flat statement. Sometimes Alastair wasn’t aware of the time, or even what time zone he was in.

“I’m aware of the time Winchester, but this business can not even be discussed via telephone and it is of the utmost importance. One hour.” The line went dead and Dean sighed, staring at the phone before replacing it in its cradle.

Knowing the time of day and Alastair’s strange commands, Dean figured he had just enough time to grab his notebooks and shove them into his bag, hit the bathroom to freshen his breath from the booze and cigarettes and head to his car. It wouldn’t do to be late for the richest of his disgustingly rich clients.

He was on the road in a quarter of an hour, a new record when being awoken from sleep, and allowed his mind to wander as he drove to Alastair's estate just outside of London. Alastair called infrequently; somehow he usually managed to find Dean wherever he may be; home, the bar, or another job. It was actually rather uncanny, especially when combined with his love of the dark occult. The books that Dean had been sent to find for him over the years varied very little in the way of subject matter, but Alastair more than anyone else, helped Dean to gain his ruthless, cut-throat reputation.

When someone like Alastair said to get something for him, you got it, no matter who or what stood in your way.

Before he knew it, Dean was pulling up to the electronic gate at Alastair’s mansion. He pressed the call button on the security box, “Dean Winchester here for Mr Alastair.” His voice was rough from chain smoking during the drive but he knew that he didn’t need to repeat himself when the gate began to open. He pulled his junker car around to the servants’ entrance and extracted himself and his shoulder bag, intending to head to the kitchen door as he always did. A shadow moved and startled him, but it was only Alastair, waiting for him.

“Took you long enough.” Dean looked at his wrist, the hand-me-down watch he wore telling him that he’d taken exactly sixty-three minutes. He shrugged, trying to hide his discomfort and anger at being treated like a child. 

“London traffic, ever unpredictable, even in the dead of night. I got here as fast as I could.” Without a word, Alastair turned and began walking towards the house, correctly assuming that Dean would follow right behind.

Alastair led Dean on a labyrinthine route through the manor he’d only ever heard of, saying nothing the entire time. They did not encounter a single person on the ten minute trek. Finally, Alastair reached a large wooden door with an ornate handle and he stopped, turning to fix Dean with a level stare.

“Everything that you see and hear inside this room, everything that we discuss, is to remain between us. I do not want to hear a hint of a rumor of the things I’m about to tell you.” Dean’s admittedly insatiable curiosity piqued, he simply nodded and held his breath, waiting for Alastair to open the door.

Alastair stared at him for another interminable amount of time before he shoved the door open into the most magnificent private library that Dean had ever seen. And he’d seen a lot of libraries in his time as a book-hunter. Dark wood bookshelves and matching floor, a mahogany work table with a few leather wing-back chairs in the more dark alcoves, books as far as his eyes could see. All beautifully, meticulously taken care of, to the point that Dean could see some encased in glass cases as well as a small, hermetically sealed cabinet in the corner, just large enough to stand next to the podium it contained. Alastair motioned for Dean to have a seat at the table and gestured for him to wait there as he vanished between the shelves for a moment.

Dean surreptitiously looked around, trying to see if he could read any titles. It seemed like the shelves closest to him (and the door) were innocuous classics, albeit mostly first editions and old. He was about to get up and get a closer look at a book with golden lettering that caught his eye when Alastair returned, placing a book and a pair of gloves in front of him.

“Secrecy, you remember Winchester. The utmost secrecy. I acquired this book a few years ago for what many people would consider a small fortune. I’m sure you’re familiar with it?”

Dean looked away from Alastair’s face and his odd golden eyes to the book in front of him and felt his mouth go dry. Dean knew what the book was the instant he saw the dark leather binding. The spine was naked aside from five raised bands along the edge and a simple pentagram carved into the leather next to the bands.

“The Nine Doors? Hell yes, if you’ll pardon the term. One doesn’t get to be in my position in this line of business without hearing about this book.” He grasped the proffered gloves and slipped them on his fingers, stretching the cotton to get them over his not-so-dainty hands.

Alastair took the chair across from him and folded his hands on the table. “Tell me what you think you know about this book.”

“Venice, mid sixteen hundreds, the printer…” Dean checked the cover page to ensure his memory was correct before continuing on, “Piero di Stampante got it into his head to write a manual for summoning the devil. He said that he had nine original wood carvings from the Delomelanicon and he was going to include them in his instructions. Not a smart move on his part. The Holy Church found him out, tossed all his books on the bonfire before they tossed him on.” Without even meaning to, Dean found himself turning pages of the book gently, examining the heft of the paper and the quality of the printing.

“Just before he died, he yelled out that there was one copy remaining and the church would never find it.”

Dean was in the habit of holding history in his hands. He often felt an awe about books that were two and three hundred years old but when he turned another page and saw the first print of a woodcarving, he felt a genuine chill run up his spine.

“You are correct, though more succinct and crude than I would have put it. Piero left one remaining copy of his book to be found. And I have it.” Alastair paused and a deep frown crossed his face. “Or rather, I thought I did. Though I won’t give you any details, I have legitimate reasons to believe that my copy of this book is a forgery. There have been mentions of this book throughout history since Piero burned, and there are currently three known copies. I need you to visit the owners of the other two. Compare mine with theirs and determine which is the real one, then report back to me.”

Dean felt another chill and couldn’t help but glance behind him to see if there was a draft in the library.

“You need me to visit the owners of the other two copies of this book and ask to examine them then tell you which one is real, based on my examinations?” Dean asked, his eyes drawn away from Alastair’s serious face and towards the book again. The print he was currently looking at was marked with the Roman Numeral for two at the top. It showed a hermit, grasping a set of keys in his right hand. There was a dog standing in front of him as well as a lit lantern on the ground. There was something sinister about the woodcarving, but he simply could not figure out what. It looked rather like a card from a Tarot deck.

“I will of course cover all expenses: travel, food, lodging as well as a daily stipend. There will be no need for you to try and buy the books from their owners; you just need to get them to agree to let you spend time with them.”

Dean’s mind was racing, trying to decide how he was going to finagle that. As well as all the other little things that investigative trips abroad always included. 

“In the vein of letting you spend time with the book, you may have the rest of tonight and into tomorrow morning with mine. Copy what information you find is pertinent. Over in the corner by the dry-room is a copier that is gentle on these old pages and inks. It won’t damage my book.” Alastair stood and began walking towards the door, pausing with his hand on the doorknob. “I don’t need to tell you how important this is to me. Nothing else matters right now, except for this. The smallest detail could prove to be the key.”

Parting words issued, Alastair opened the door and vanished through it into the dark hallway beyond. It was oppressively quiet for a few moments, until Dean got his mind ordered and began to flip through the book again, this first time looking for things that other people--even rich book collectors and sellers, may have missed during an initial investigation for validity of the book.

The binding, from what he could tell from visual inspection only, was certainly time-period appropriate. As were the pages inside, heavy and clearly hand-stitched into the binding with hand-cut edges. As he leafed through the pages, they made the satisfying ‘shuff-shuff’ noise that heavy paper pages in old books always made. Dean pulled a clean notebook and his magnifying glass from his bag, shoved his glasses up his nose and set to work.

Eight hours passed like eight minutes once Dean was invested. The book was fascinating, he knew that much without even reading it. He made copies of all the woodcuts, as well as the title page and anything else that stood out on the first pass-through. He had at least two full pages of notes in his own shorthand on each woodcut. He didn’t even realize that he hadn’t moved in eight hours until the door opened and Alastair came in pushing a tray of coffee and breakfast pastries.

“Normally I wouldn’t deign to serve you myself, but as I don’t allow my staff in the library and I couldn’t pull you away despite repeated attempts to get your attention, I figured that I would have to lower myself to this. A servant.” 

Dean snatched one of the cups of coffee off the tray, the smell of it already dispelling the feeling of the creeps he’d had all night while looking at the book still open in front of him. He took a long sip, scalding his tongue and his fingertips through the fine china cup before he looked up.

“Would it make you feel better to think of yourself as a gracious host instead of a servant? The coffee is much appreciated.” Dean smiled up at Alastair over the top of his glasses and received a small smile in return.

“Yes, well, gracious host is something I think I’ve never been called before, nor is it something that I thought would be attributed to me, in my lifetime. But as we are both ‘uncouth colonials’ I figured that the coffee would be better than the tea that my servants insist on bringing me in the morning.”

“Too true.” Dean took another scalding sip, letting his eyes run over the pages open in front of him, the final woodcarving of the book; a beautiful naked woman reading a book from the back of a seven headed dragon while a castle burns in the background. The woman stared out of the page and the carving was so real that it set Dean’s teeth on edge. He closed the book and reached for a pastry. He chewed it thoughtfully as he watched Alastair’s eyes roam the open page of his notebook no doubt trying to decipher his short-hand.

Considering it was of his own design, a mixture of Latin and Russian that only he could read and understand, he felt pretty confident leaving the page open even though it was the one that listed his questions about how Alastair could possibly know that the book was a fake. There was only one way that he could know for sure and the thought of someone like Alastair, rich businessman extraordinaire, trying to summon the devil was almost too ludicrous to comprehend. What happened when one summoned the devil anyway? A final, scalding swallow found Dean at the bottom of his coffee cup.

“So where will I be travelling in the next few days? I do need to head home first, and should know if I need to pack a swimsuit after all.” Alastair actually threw his head back and laughed, a much bigger reaction than the joke deserved. Dean tried to cover his discomfort with another mouthful of pastry.

“No, Mister Winchester, I don’t think a swimsuit will be part of your wardrobe for the trip. Unless you book yourself into a hotel with a pool, that is. Paris and Verona will be your stops, I leave the order of the cities up to you. In Paris you’ll be visiting with Baroness Abaddon. She is aware you are coming, though not _ why _. I’ve called ahead. She seems eager to meet you.”

Dean rocked his chair back and cracked his neck; Abaddon was the type of woman that would eat him alive. The fiery red-head was old French aristocracy; her Scottish ancestors had begun marrying into the fringes of French aristocracy three hundred years ago and then had hidden their French relatives in the highlands of Scotland during the French revolution, ensuring none of them lost their heads. Hers was an old family, she’d probably had the book for a long time.

Her current way of passing the time, since the French aristocracy was no longer really needed, was writing pseudo-erotic fiction best sellers. Abaddon was well known to be a ‘man eater’ and Dean knew he’d have to watch himself around her. 

Despite the way he neglected his physical body, he was in peak shape and his good looks were a weapon that he’d used in the past to get what he wanted. But the Baroness was predatory.

“I can tell from the look on your face that you are familiar with the Baroness, so I won't warn you about her. I get the feeling you’ll enter her lair as armed as you can against her advances. However, she is a beautiful, vivacious woman. I would imagine even if she ensnares you that you would have a good time.” Alastair chuckled as Dean glared at him across the table.

“For the other little visit, you’ll be seeing Duke Crowley at his last remaining family estate in Verona. I believe that the accommodations from the Duke will be rather sub-par in comparison with Abaddon’s Paris condo.”

Alastair was on a roll with his observations. The Duke’s family was so destitute that it had made the international news, beyond the notoriously gossipy bookseller and book collector community. There was no information on the why of the Crowley family’s fall, some vague whispers about deals gone bad, debts come due and rumblings that it was all karma in action. Crowley’s family provenance was older than even Abaddon’s and there was no way of knowing from an outside source the reasons for the sudden fall.

As he thought about it, Dean realized that Crowley would have to be his first visit, and Abaddon his second, despite the travel arrangements being more complicated that way. He nodded across the table at Alastair then flipped his notebook to a clean page and began to plot out his trip, not in shorthand this time, but easily legible, clean writing so that Alastair could follow along and tally up his expenses as he wrote.

“I hate to fly, truly and utterly loathe it. So I’ll take a train to Paris and then onto Verona to meet up with Crowley, then backtrack to Abaddon. Provided that both of them are willing to let me have at least the eight hours you allotted me with your book, I should have the information for you within five days? Would that be quick enough?”

Alastair leaned forward across the table and put his hand over Dean’s, stopping his pen from moving. Dean looked up and met the man’s golden eyes, the chill from the night before returning to his neck. He felt the hair on his arms stand up.

“If I run myself ragged or try and rush it, I may _ miss _ something. Surely you can wait for five days instead of the three I could get it done in if I skipped sleeping and eating.” Deep down, Dean knew that no one talked to Alastair like he’d done for the last hour, but there was something about this house, about the way he was looking, about the entire situation that made Dean feel as though he were doomed anyway.

“I wasn’t going to object to your timeline Winchester. Just wanted to look at you.” Dean felt a different shiver down his spine at Alastair’s words. Just like Abaddon, he was well aware of the kind of beautiful people that Alastair liked to surround himself with. The kind of people that would succumb to flattery and money and attention.

Trying to extricate himself from the tricky, uncomfortable situation Dean grabbed his phone to pull up Google. “A quick search says I can grab a train to Paris in about four hours, then get a connection to the TGV to Verona and be at the door of the Duke’s estate in about twelve hours.” He gathered his things, piling them haphazardly in his satchel, feeling the pressing need to get out of that room immediately.

As many times as he’d used his good looks as a weapon, he’d had to deal with borderline sexual harassment over them twice as much.

“You’ll phone me when you get to Crowley’s? I want regular reports. As much information as you feel safe communicating over the phone, understand?” Dean nodded; amongst every other little thing that was bothering him, Alastair’s insistence on absolute secrecy was right at the top of the list. He paused with his hand on the doorknob fighting the urge to tell Alastair to find someone else for the job. But he didn’t.

Something told him that no matter what happened in the next five days, he was going to have to stick with this until the end.

Whatever the end might be.

Four hours later and freshly showered with his bag repacked, Dean located his seat on the train. He’d always liked train rides, ever since he was a little kid. He found them soothing, the rhythm of the track and the light rocking that accompanied all train rides. He never slept better than when he was on a train. 

Despite Alastair’s limitless bankroll, he’d opted not for a sleeper room, or even a private room, taking a chance on a first class seat where he could people watch, one of his other little guilty pleasures. He liked to make up stories for all the people that he saw and watched as they went about their lives; most of the stories came from the books that he read but since it was his game, no one would judge his lack of creativity.

He’d just pulled “Dune” from his bag, a comforting old favorite that he could pick up and read again and again and lose himself in, when he felt the seat beside him shift with the weight of somebody sitting.

When he lifted his eyes from his book he nearly gasped aloud: sitting next to him was the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen. Dark mahogany hair, grey eyes, pink lips holding a mischievous smile and dimples along with mid-summer tanned skin and miles and miles of legs. When his eyes made it back up to meet his seatmate’s, and his tongue recovered enough for him to remember his manners, he offered a hand.

“I’m Dean.” The lovely creature extended their hand in return, their fingers long and elegant and oh-so-warm.

“Dean is a good name; my favorite name you might say. I am Rowan,” the lovely creature replied with another smile. Dean felt entirely captivated, a feeling that he didn’t think he’d ever had before.

“Well, I see nothing little or red about you so that must mean you are here to protect me on my journey, yes?” In his rush to impress Rowan, he listed off the first things that he associated with that name, making an utter fool of himself. Luckily for him, Rowan giggled and leaned forward, as though to share a secret.

“You are odd, Dean. I like this. You look like a dirty professor, you read science fiction novels and know lots of things about my very rare name.” Dean picked up a bit of an accent when Rowan was speaking, but despite his mid-west American “non-accent” he couldn’t place it. The inflection on some of the words Rowan spoke was unusual and ended up drawing Dean in even more than their looks already had.

The train dipped into the tunnel and the way the last of the light glinted off Dean’s glasses made it look like Rowan’s eyes were glowing for just a second. He shook the thought off with a laugh. Everything for the last sixteen hours had given him a sour feeling in the pit of his stomach, but he was enjoying a lively conversation with a beautiful, clever person and he wasn’t going to let the foreboding intrude on it.

Rowan reached into their bag and pulled out a copy of Abaddon’s most recent novel, and Dean couldn’t bite back a comment.

“You seem too intelligent for that best-seller drivel.” 

Rowan smiled, dimples flashing at him and momentarily making it feel like all the air had been sucked from their compartment.

“I enjoy reading. I’ve read excellent books and horrible books. I’ve read rare books and best-sellers. You never know what you will discover if you turn your nose up at a book because of the subject matter.” Rowan leaned forward to whisper in Dean’s ear, “all books contain magic, if you can find it.”

Dean found himself at a loss for words at that; he had a feeling that magic was a primary feature of the current undertaking he found himself entwined in. He sat back in his chair and lifted his book, mirroring Rowan’s posture behind their book. 

He lost himself in Frank Herbert’s desert world and the saga of Maud Dib for an hour as Rowan lost themselves in the best-selling pseudo erotica they were reading. When the train arrived in Paris, Dean stood, holding his hand out for Rowan to help them up and out of their seat, stumbling backwards a little when Rowan stood to their full height and towered over his six foot one frame.

“Whoa. So, are you some secret supermodel or something?” He laughed, grabbing his bag and slipping the strap over his shoulder. 

“No, no secret anything. Just a wanderer and a student who loves reading and happens to be tall.” They exited the train together and began to walk in two different directions, but Dean just couldn’t leave it like that, he turned around, shouting Rowan’s name, his steps quickening so that he could reach them before they vanished into the crowd. He nearly yelled as they stopped and turned, the knowing smile still on their face. “I just… I dunno, I didn’t want to leave it like this. I have to catch a connection to Verona but if you’re going to be in Paris for a while, maybe I could look you up when I come back through?” He turned on as much charm as he had, he didn’t know why he felt such a pull to Rowan, but he did. And Dean wanted to see what would come of it.

“This won’t be the last time that we see each other, Dean, but if it settles your mind, I will give you my phone number. You can call me anytime.” 

Dean handed his phone over with a stupid grin and watched as Rowan added their number to the address book. Rowan handed the phone back over to him and leaned down with a smile. “I look forward to hearing from you Dean.” With a peck on the cheek, Rowan was gone, vanished into the crowd and Dean was left to find his way to his next train. 

On a side street of a section of Greater Milan called Sesto San Giovanni worked one of the greatest art forgers of the modern world, Benny. While Dean loved the odd, yet talented man, he trusted him with nothing except two things: serving cheap booze and knowing how to spot a forgery.

Whether Benny would tell the truth about a forgery was another issue altogether.

Due to his time constraints, Dean would have to see the second book in Verona before he could stop and talk with Benny. As he found his seat on the train, he sent a quick text off, making plans to meet at Benny’s shop late the next evening. Dean allowed himself to be lulled to sleep by the rhythm of the train and the gloomy weather outside. 

He dreamed of Tarot cards, fire, the devil and Rowan’s glowing, grey eyes.

When his stop was called in Verona, he stumbled off the train blearily, his dreams haunting him as he tried to wake himself up enough to rent a car and drive to Crowley’s vineyard palazzo.

The drive was numbing; Dean found himself unable to shake off the grogginess from the poor sleep he got on the train.

It was nearing 8pm when he finally pulled through the rusted gates and drove up Crowley’s drive. He parked near a fountain that had seen better days, the water green and the statues covered in calcification. He pulled his bag tighter on his shoulder and headed up to the front door, which swung open before he could knock.

“Who are you? Why are you here?” Crowley demanded, looking worse than Dean felt. He tried to smile, though it likely came across as more of a grimace, and stuck out his hand.

“Dean Winchester. I believe that Mister Alastair called ahead to advise you that I would be coming?” At least, he hoped that Alastair had--he’d confirmed that he made Dean an appointment with Abaddon, but had said nothing about Crowley.

“Ahh, yes, that vulture. I told him I’m not interested in selling. I’ve already sold enough of my books, my _ children _.” Crowley wiped a hand on his worn trousers but it was still clammy when he gripped Dean’s hand in a pathetic imitation of a handshake.

“I assure you, Duke, I am not here to make an offer or anything so pushy or nefarious as that. I simply want to examine your copy of the _ Nine Doors _ in comparison to my employer’s. That is all. You can stay in the room while I examine the book—the entire time, if you feel the need.” With a giant, fake grin, Dean tried to be unassuming, hoping that he wouldn’t actually have to deal with the Duke hovering over his shoulder the entire time he was examining the book.

Crowley glared at him for a moment, then wordlessly stepped back and gestured Dean inside the house.

It was dark inside, darker than the dusk outside would suggest. As they traversed the hallway, Dean could see clear spots on the walls where art used to hang, see pieces of floor that clearly had furniture on it once upon a time. The signs of neglect were clear and prevalent. It was dirty, dingy and empty in a sad way. Eventually the hallway opened up into a large living room, or it would have been, once upon a time. Now there was a threadbare rug in the middle of a furniture-less room with a few, precious books carefully lined up on it.

“The last of my collection. _ Vultures _ . I’ve had to sell all but the ones I could not part with just to keep possession of my own home. These are the ones, the ones I can’t bear to live without. _ Nine Doors _ is in the center there.” Crowley waved a hand at the small line of books and Dean felt himself wince; he’d found rare and precious books in worse conditions than this before but only when the owner had no idea what they possessed. Crowley, a renowned book lover and collector, should have known better.

Wincing only slightly, Dean folded himself down onto the floor in front of the books. He pulled off his jacket and tucked it underneath himself for some dubious cushioning and tried to get as comfortable as he could. He was reaching for _ Nine Doors _ when another one of the books caught his eye. Instantly he knew that the book would fetch a fortune: for himself as broker and for Crowley. It would be enough for Crowley to breathe life back into his family home. He looked up at Crowley and his hand redirected to the _ Codex Leicester, _ thought to be in the hands of Bill Gates in America. But Dean knew that book. He knew the cover. 

“If you sold this…” he started, his hand hovering above the binding, unable to make himself touch it, knowing what it was.

“If I sold that book, I could restore my family home and name, even the town. And yet. I can’t part with it. I’ve tried, but I find myself incapable. My collection has dwindled down to nothing. My house is falling apart around me. The town I love is a ghost town. And yet, these remaining books are my children. How could I be expected to part with them?”

Dean wanted to understand, but he couldn’t. The closest thing he’d ever had to a love like that was Lisa, but that was so long ago and so bad at the end, that even devastating as it was, he’d been relieved when it was finally over. Lisa was a bittersweet memory at best and he wouldn’t want her back even if it was possible. Even as the thought crossed his mind, his subconscious supplied the image of a different face; Rowan. With those beautiful cat eyes and tanned skin and dimpled smile; Dean wanted something from them, certainly.

“I’ve been instructed to make you an offer for the _ Nine Doors _ again.” Dean suggested instead, his hand moving towards the familiar dark leather binding with the five raised ridges and the pentacle on the edge. He grabbed the book from the stack and pulled it towards him, gently opening it to the title page and the first woodcarving “Printed with the permission of the superiors” He couldn’t help but wonder again who the superiors were; the devil himself? Surely Piero didn’t print this book with the church’s permission, not when they burned him for it.

“Would the money be coming from your benefactor, Alastair?” Crowley asked, hedging around the sides of the room, hands fluttering as he watched Dean with one of his prized books.

“Perhaps.” Dean offered, flipping through the book, trying to get a feel for the weight of the paper. It felt the same as when he’d had Alastair’s book in his hands from just that morning, but the mind could play tricks on you in situations like this. Especially considering just how off Dean had felt since he first got Alastairs’ call.

“I’ll consider it. I think the answer will remain a no, but you may have your time with my book and I’ll take the night to think about it.” Crowley paused, hovering once again, “Do you have enough light here to work? I do have something of an office, with a table lamp and table, if you’d prefer.”

Dean accepted and grabbed his things along with the book. Crowley showed him down the hall, to another sparse, dreary room, but one more well lit, with a simple table and chair. 

“I’ll leave you here for a bit to work. I’ll be down the hall should you need something.”

The hours flew by as Dean took copious notes, working with his photocopied pages and Crowley’s book. He took extra time with each of the woodcut prints, because he felt that there would be something there that would tell a story. After a few hours, he had a breakthrough. He’d been staring at the pictures, feeling silly as though he were a child playing spot the difference, when he finally noticed a difference.

For years, there had been no photographic evidence of these books. In addition, the last time they had been collected in the same spot was probably back in 1666 when they were printed. The catalogues all said ‘_ woodcut number two, hermit holding keys in front of a door _’ no further detail needed. Except, in Alastair’s book, the door was closed. In Crowley’s book, the door was open. Dean gasped aloud when he noticed it.

He started a new page in his notebook, with nine columns and three lines, book 1 (Alastair) book 2 (Crowley) and book 3 (Abbadon, provided she allowed the same courtesy that Crowley had). He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, poring over the woodcuts once again, this time, looking for broader differences instead of issues with the physical woodcarvings, he was looking for differences in the pictures. Altogether, there were five engravings that were different from book one to book two. 

Without access to a copier, he wrote as detailed descriptions as he could, accounting for the differences. He charted them, described them, wrote down every single difference that he could find between the two copies. He even went so far as to pull his spare glasses out of his bag and use them as a sort of magnifying glass so that he could check the artists signature on each photo. It was near midnight when he finished. He tucked his notes into his bag and picked up the _ Nine Doors _ to hand back to Crowley. 

Dean wandered back through the dimly lit hallway to the room where the meagre selection of beloved books remained, and found Crowley slumped over in a threadbare armchair, asleep. Quickly, he ripped a clean sheet of paper out of his notebook and left a note that he’d be back in the morning, tucking it and the book next to the others on the carpet in the middle of the room. He slipped out the door and into his rental car to find a hotel for the night.

As he drove, Dean called Alastair to give him an update on what he’d found. Unfortunately, he wasn’t answering the phone. After two calls that went straight to voicemail, Dean decided it would be better to leave a general “still on the trail of information, will try again later” rather than keep calling. The whole situation had him spooked enough to not want to leave any details either.

Dean didn’t have to drive far to find the one remaining hotel in town still open; its light shining bright and welcoming even at such a late hour. He stepped into the lobby and was making his way towards the check-in desk when something caught his eye from near the windows; Rowan. Dean’s steps slowed and then stopped as he tried to resolve the fact that they were here. He turned direction mid-stride to go over to where they were sitting, backpack tucked under their chair, sweater around thin shoulders and bare feet up on the seat across from them. Their nose was deep in a book, a different one from the train, a cheap paperback of _ I, Lucifer _. Considering they were here and considering the mission that he was currently on, Dean immediately became suspicious. He walked over and stood in front of them, his shadow falling across the pages of their book until Rowan looked up and met his eyes.

“Are you following me?” the words came out of his mouth angrier than intended, but he was on edge. He’d been on edge with no restful sleep for two days and, in the words of one of his favorite fictional characters: _ there is no such thing as coincidence as the universe is rarely so lazy _.

“You said yourself that I’d been sent to protect you, did you not?” Rowan replied, unruffled. They lifted their bare feet from the chair and gestured for Dean to sit. He slumped down in the chair, exhaustion and shock not allowing him to do anything else, as his knees collapsed.

“It was a joke, referring to the meaning of your name, nothing more So you _ are _ following me? How do you know me? What...” Dean trailed off, at a loss for words as he swayed with exhaustion from lack of sleep.

“I find you fascinating, Dean. Are you okay?” Rowan leaned forward and placed their hand on his arm as he swayed in his chair.

“I’m fine. This thing I’m working on right now has me flustered and I haven’t slept in almost two days.” Rowan leaned closer between their two chairs, their eyes seeming to glow for a moment, but it must have been a trick of Dean’s exhausted mind because it was gone between one blink and the next.

“Haven’t slept…you stubborn man. Come with me, I already have a room. I’ll watch over you while you sleep.” Rowan stood, towering over Dean as they pulled him to his feet. Slowly, they made their way down the hallway, towards a room on the first floor. It was on the tip of Dean’s tongue to protest; he didn’t know this person, not really, and wasn’t in a place really to trust anyone at the moment. Yet, there was something about Rowan, something familiar even though he was certain if he’d met Rowan before he couldn’t possibly have forgotten. They unlocked the room and shoved him inside with their body, Dean finally getting the confirmation that Rowan was clearly a boy from the feel of his body against Dean’s.

He couldn’t help thinking about it, even as he flopped onto the bed, leather jacket, shoes and shoulder bag still on his person; thinking about the way that tall, willowy body felt against his for that brief moment. The last thing he thought before he finally succombed to sleep was how much he wanted the mysterious, androgynous boy that was following him and protecting him. A quick flash of lust and then he was asleep, dreaming nothing. 

Rowan shook him awake not nearly enough time later.

“Come, we have to go.”

“Bzzuh?” Dean mumbled, trying to roll onto his back and sit up on the bed, his eyes unwilling to open.

“We have to go. Your friend Crowley? He’s dead. We have to get to his house now.” Rowan was fully dressed, shoes on his feet as he paced the room, clearly impatient for Dean to get moving.

“Dead, what d’you mean _ dead _ ? I was there last night. And how do you know he’s dead?” Dean blinked his eyes open and rubbed them before pulling his only slightly bent glasses out of his bag and righting them on his face. “Who _ are _ you?”

Rowan turned in his place and leveled an adorable glare at Dean. “Do you want to waste time asking stupid questions or do you want to solve this little mystery that Alastair has given you? We have to go.” Rowan tightened the straps on his backpack and leveled a glare at Dean and his reluctance to move.

For the first time, Rowan didn’t feel like simply some attractive traveler, he felt… almost dangerous. Not scary, Dean wasn’t scared, but he felt like he could sense power from Rowan. He could tell that this person standing in front of him was not nearly as innocent and gentle as he looked. And, as fucked up as it was, it turned Dean on even more than it had the night before. He rolled onto his side and tried to discreetly adjust his semi as he stood up. Judging from the hungry and interested look on Rowan’s face, he’d failed.

“We don’t have time for that either. But I want you to keep it in mind so we can revisit that thought when we’re not in a rush.” Rowan waved in the general vicinity of Dean’s crotch then turned and grabbed the door handle to head out.

Dean blinked, swaying on his feet just a little. He felt, no, he _ knew _ that he was in over his head in a lot of ways. He wasn’t scared yet, though. He wasn’t going to run away, he needed answers. He wanted answers too much; wanted Rowan too much. As soon as they stepped outside the hotel, they could see the black smoke still lingering in the air.

By the time they reached Crowley’s once-grand estate, the flames were gone, but the entire grounds were still smouldering. Dean felt his heart catch in his throat: the history, the money and the life that had been inside that building when he’d left last night were just gone, up in smoke. It was difficult to think about. Rowan never paused in his long-legged stride as he marched up to the crumbling remains of the outside wall of the house, right about where the living room and all the books had been last night, when Dean oriented himself properly.

He could see the charred remnants of all the books, he could even see what was left of the threadbare rug the books had been sitting on. 

The familiar book, dark leather binding with it’s five raised bands was at the top of the pile. Gingerly, lest it fall apart, he reached down and pulled the binding off the still smouldering pile. To Dean’s shock, there were still some intact pages, as though the book in his hand had been tossed on the fire just recently, though the book wasn’t hot to the touch. He held it open and wished for a ziplock baggie or something weather-proof to put it inside of until he got to a place where he could examine it a little bit better, but he had nothing. He took some pages out of his spare notebook and placed them around the outside of the book before placing it in his shoulder bag and went to search for Rowan. When he finally found him, he had built himself back up into a fury, albeit an exhausted one.

“Tell me who you are and what you know.” Dean demanded as he sat down beside the boy on a crumbling section of wall facing the row of fountains. His whole body sagged down, the weight of everything feeling like it was crushing his shoulders. Rowan looked at him, then down at the tip of his sneakers.

“I’m a student. A reader. A traveller. I’m a friend.” Rowan looked up and Dean was momentarily captivated by his eyes, so much so that he felt himself leaning in closer.

“That’s all you’re willing to tell me? Someone I have known for years died last night, supposedly. I never did see his body, not that I’d want to. You tell me that you’re a friend, but you won’t tell me how you know what I’m doing or why you’re following me. You give me a name that means protection, but how do I even know you’re really here to protect me?” Dean sagged again; he wanted to believe in Rowan with every molecule in his body. He didn’t know why, all logic dictated that he shouldn’t trust the beautiful boy with the legs for days and rainy-day eyes, but as he turned to look at Rowan again, he felt nothing but calm come over him.

“Crowley’s body is in that fountain there; I saw him earlier while you were grabbing the remains of the book. I assume we’re headed to Sesto San Giovanni to see your friend Benny?”

Unable to stop himself, Dean pushed himself to his feet and leaned towards where Rowan had pointed, able to see the top of a foot and the hem of a bathrobe, hanging over the lip of the fountain. He shuddered and sat back down, patting his pockets for a cigarette as his stomach rolled and his mind raced.

He finally located a cigarette and lighter and was half-way through the first puff when something occurred to him and he choked on the lungful of smoke. “How do you know Benny?”

Rowan raised one eyebrow and smirked at him as he coughed, “A Frenchman, living in Milan who also happens to be one of the best forgers in the world? As to the friend, I took a guess. You strike me as…. The same ilk.”

“You know, I haven’t been so infuriated by someone I was this attracted to since… “

“Lisa? “ Rowan suggested, and before Dean could stop himself, he was replying. 

“At least I got to sleep with Lisa. Wait, how do you know about Lisa? Who _ are _ you? “

“I know you, Dean Winchester. And I hope that, in time, we can get you the answers you need in order to know me as well. But for now, we must go before the police come. We can get the next train to Milan and be on time for your rendezvous with Monsieur LaFitte.”

Though Benny didn’t run anything resembling a legitimate business, he operated out of a small storefront on a crumbling side street, just steps away from new and expensive condos. Dean and Rowan arrived at precisely the time of day that any other retailer would be closing up shop and heading home for an evening meal and drinks with friends and family. Benny was no ordinary retailer however, and he was hovering just inside the door when they arrived.

“Dean, mon ami, it’s been too long.” Benny exclaimed with a hug, as he dragged Dean though the door and very nearly slammed it closed in Rowan’s face. At the last minute, Dean tugged Rowan through and into the shop with them.

“And who is this _ ravissante beaute _ that you’ve brought to meet me?” Benny turned a predatory smile towards Rowan and Dean moved to stand between the two of them, not wanting Benny to get too close to Rowan. Benny refocused on Dean and smirked, “Oh, it’s like that, yes? Well, in that case…. Lovely, you can have a seat in my comfy chair while Dean and I talk shop.” 

Rowan was already moving towards the armchair in the corner, pulling a book out of his backpack and slipping his feet out of his sneakers so that he could pull his feet up onto the edge of the chair. Dean absently admired just how bendy those long legs were before he allowed Benny to drag his attention back to the matter at hand. 

They wandered over towards the cleaned-off workbench on the side of the room and Dean gingerly emptied his bag of its precious contents. The half-burned book, the photo-copies as well as the sanitized and re-written copies of his notes that he’d copied just for Benny. When he finished laying everything out, he glanced over at Rowan, who was wholly absorbed in his book; another cheap paperback but this time the title read _ The Devil in Love _.

“Winchester, you always bring me the most interesting things. Look at this. Oh it just breaks my heart to see this beauty all burnt up like this.” Benny gingerly picked up the leather binding of the burnt book, turning it over in his hands to see how much of the pages were intact. Dean was watching his face and not Benny’s hands or he never would have seen the wince that crossed his face at the state of the burnt and crumbling pages.

“Lost, just like his brothers to the fire.” Benny sighed heavily, causing some flakes of ash to fly into the air and land on Dean’s shirt. Dean went to brush them off but they smudged down the front of his dirty, white button down and he was reminded of how long it had been since he’d had the luxury of clean clothes. Dean shoved his hand down to the bottom of his bag, feeling the clean clothes there.

“Hey, Ben, you mind if I go clean up for a sec?” He gestured at the smudged ash and sweat stains on his shirt and Benny waved him towards the back of the shop absently. As Dean passed through the dusty back hall, noting the shelves covered in the tools of Benny’s trade, something caught his eye. For some reason, he saw the edge of a torn page with a part of woodcarving on it and, without knowing why, Dean pulled the single page off the shelf and shoved it into his bag, not bothering to look closely.

Benny had spread out all of his documentation about the books across his workbench and was making his own notes on the page Dean had designated to share.

“You ask me for my opinion, you ask for my help, but you can’t be bothered to bring me the book in question?” Benny asked, holding the pile of photocopies aloft and shaking them accusingly.

“Benny, the book won’t leave London. If you could go to England…” Dean teased, knowing full well his French friend’s opinion of England in general, and London in specific.

“_ Les Keufs _ could never prove that it was me, and they still took my passport.” Benny spat with a rude, Italian hand gesture.

“It was you, though. Wasn’t it?” Dean asked, sure of the answer he’d get. A few years ago, a copy of Galileo’s “Starry Messenger” was discovered but this copy, instead of having ink-plate washings of the moon’s phases, it had beautiful renderings in watercolor. It had sold for a few small fortunes and circulated around as an incredibly rare find; even Dean remembered the awe he’d felt when he’d read about it and the desire to have been the one to find it.

The booklet itself had been proven to be authentic but the watercolors were forgeries, causing a scandal. Benny, of course, had been under suspicion almost immediately and investigated thoroughly, though nothing was ever proved.

“Ahhhh, you flatter me. Whomever the genius that craved those beautiful works of art was will never be caught and will never confess. Forgery like that… it should hardly be considered a crime, no? It simply adds to the beauty of the thing. It takes time, patience, research.” He picked up the photocopies again and gestured Dean to come closer, close enough that Dean could smell Benny’s cologne under the dusty smell of the shop and Dean’s libido picked up. He shot a glance over his shoulder at Rowan, still folded up in the armchair, reading his book without a care in the world before catching Benny’s eye.

His sometime fuck-buddy was looking back with heat, but Dean shook his head. Not this trip. Not with Rowan this close and the feeling of a dangerous threat around every corner. 

“With your book, or books in this case, you have a lot of options as to how the forgery was created. Piero himself stated that there was only one book remaining, but we have proof that there are three. So, one would have to surmise that one is real and there are two whole forgeries. Or, Piero lied, and three copies remained, yet your employer insists that his is a fake. So, is it a partial fake? Were pages removed and then inserted?” The fire in Benny’s voice was so fervent that even Rowan looked up from his book and couldn’t take his eyes off Benny, explaining with such passion about his craft.

“If pages were removed and inserted, think about the attention to detail needed to pass inspection--if a modern forger, you would have to find the same quality paper--same size and thickness. You would have to age it, then find a way to insert it into the book without detection, and that doesn’t take into account finding the correct type; having access to the book long enough that you can determine the kind of ink used, the moveable type ,and even study the imperfections.” Benny gave a wistful sigh and Dean looked over at him knowing that these little details are what Benny was known for in the field--no one paid attention to detail better than Benjamin LaFitte and certainly no one enjoyed it as much as he did.

“And what if it was a woodcut print that had been forged?” Rowan asked and Dean startled; he hadn’t even noticed Rowan sneaking up behind him.

“That is even more fun. With that, you simply get to use your creativity. You would have to go through the same information for printing it and inserting it into the book, but you get to create a relief of a carving, which is so much easier now than it was back in 1666. Then you print it up and insert it into the book, easy as you please.” Benny gestured both Dean and Rowan closer to the bench and spread out the photocopies in front of them. 

“Maybe the forger has two of the books, or has seen them. It’s not hard to copy the style of a woodcarving, but the devil, if you’ll excuse the expression, is in the details.” He pulled a magnifying glass from a shelf under the bench and handed it to Dean first.

“Tell me about the details you see when you look at the first one. All the little things that stick out in your mind.” Dean peered at the image and a dozen things leapt to mind immediately; but he wasn’t sure what kind of details Benny wanted so he looked up and pushed Rowan to look through the magnifying glass.

“What are these markings? Down here in the bottom right and left corners?” Without looking, Dean knew Rowan was asking about the printer’s marks. On the bottom left of each engraving a signature with the abbreviation INV for invenit (inventor, or the person who created the original art) and in the bottom right was a signature with the abbreviation SCULP for sculpsit (sculptor, or the person who did the actual engraving).

Dean knew that these did not match on all the woodcarvings. In Alastair’s book, there were two engravings with L.F. as the inventor’s initials while the others had the initials P. dS. He discovered this when he saw that five of the engravings in Alastair’s book did not match Crowley’s book. All of the ones that did not match showed L.F. as their inventor. Piero was the one who printed the book and burned at the stake, but someone else helped to light the fire at his feet. Dean let all of this information roll through him, sorting the details and chewing on different theories as he liked to do with especially tricky cases, and he completely ignored what Benny was saying to Rowan; he doubted that Benny would impart anything he didn’t already know.

That, and Dean had a theory already. But he wasn’t going to say anything until he could see the third book. It was a totally ridiculous theory but he couldn’t shake it. He suspected that he knew what the initials LF stood for.

Dean gestured for Rowan that they had to be going and extricated himself to gather up his things.

“I wish I could have been more helpful. I feel like I didn’t tell you anything that you didn’t already know,” Benny offered, helping to gather up all the various book-related things that were strewn across the bench,

“Benny you’ve helped a lot, believe me. Once this is all finished and I’ve been paid, I’ll come back and let you in on all the secrets. For now, we’re off to Paris to see the final book and find out if I can prove my theory correct.”

Benny flirtatiously kissed both Dean and Rowan on both cheeks as he said goodbye at the door of his shop. Dean suddenly wished that the visit could have gone differently; that there would have been time for drinking and flirting and possibly even some fucking, but then he glanced away from Benny and watched as Rowan made his way towards the train station and realized that maybe fucking wasn’t off the table for him just yet.

He turned back for a final goodbye to his friend, but Benny had already vanished back inside his shop with another customer and Dean didn’t get the chance. He followed Rowan to the train station, pulling out his phone to call Alastair and give him an update, but he didn’t get a chance to speak to the man, leaving only a vague voicemail for him in case someone else intercepted the message. He laughed to himself as he tucked his phone back into his pocket; it seemed that Alastair’s paranoia had infected him. As he sat down, however, he recalled the crumbling ash of the Crowley Vineyard and thought maybe the old adage was correct: it’s not paranoia if they are out to get you.

Dean and Rowan had just taken their seats on the train when Dean’s phone began to ring with Alastair’s caller-ID. He stepped away from Rowan and lifted the phone to his ear.

“Hello, Alastair. You are a difficult man to get in touch with.”

“Yes, well, I’ve been busy. Travelling.” Alastair sounded vaguely out of breath and there was interference on the other end of the line that was making it hard to hear him. “What have you learned, Dean?” Alastair’s breathy voice made the hair on the back of Dean’s neck stand up.

“Nothing conclusive yet. There are differences between the books, but I’ve only had a chance to see two of them. On my way to Paris now. Oh, and Crowley is dead. His entire estate is burned to ash.” He felt bile at the back of his throat as he said it, his vision even going blurry. The loss of life was sad, but Dean felt even more emotion at the history and knowledge that was lost in the fire.

“How terrible. You were able to examine his book beforehand?” 

Alastair’s tone had Dean freezing. He felt his hand beginning to tremble; he knew, hell, _ everyone _ knew that Alastair was ruthless, but to know a thing and to experience a thing are two very different situations. 

“Yes, I was. I don’t feel comfortable speaking now, though. Couldn’t get a private room with the schedule change and last minute ticket. Train is pretty full and reception is kinda spotty.”

“Yes, yes, of course. Winchester, I’m glad it’s you I trusted with this. My number one guy.” With those rather creepy words, Alastair’s call dropped and Dean met Rowan’s eyes across the train. Rowan stood and walked away from the seats they’d claimed, his backpack in his hand. Dean followed.

They walked some distance down the train, through two different cars without stopping. Dean never caught up to Rowan before Rowan ducked into a private room and beckoned Dean to join him. Dean shut the door and pulled the shades for privacy as soon as he was inside. With the door latched and the shades pulled, Rowan wasted no time moving in close and tilting Dean’s face up.

Looking up while kissing was a new experience for Dean, but he didn’t hate it. As Rowan kissed him, soft pecking kisses over and over and over like he was sipping at Dean’s lips, Rowan began opening buttons and coaxing all the clothing off him, almost without Dean noticing. Soon, Dean was naked aside from his boxers while Rowan still stood in front of him, fully clothed.

“Do I get to return the favor?” Dean asked, running his hands over Rowan’s scarf, unravelling it from Rowan’s elegant neck. Dean pulled the long, striped scarf off and tossed it onto the bench behind Rowan before he slipped his hands inside the green army jacket and danced his fingertips over Rowan’s lithe stomach. “Can I take this too?” Dean teased, pushing the jacket down Rowan’s arms slowly and feeling a smile spread over his face as he did so.

“Oh, please touch me.” Rowan practically whined as he twisted his hips to press even closer in the small space. The way Rowan was moving his hips made Dean’s blood boil, and as much as he wanted to savor the moment, everything blurred and the next thing he knew, he was flat on his back with a naked Rowan writhing on top of him. He flexed his fingers on Rowan’s slim hips as he tried to take in the tableau above him, though it all felt so good, so overwhelming, that his eyes threatened to roll into the back of his head.

Rowan’s skin was sun-kissed tan all over, not a tan line in sight and it was smooth, not a single blemish or scar or even a freckle with the exception of a large vaguely round birthmark on his upper left chest below his collarbone. Dean loosened his grip on the hip clenched in his hand to reach up and run delicate fingertips over the mark. When he did, Rowan’s closed eyes popped open and focused on him immediately. 

Rowan’s eyes seemed to glow and it was not the first time that Dean thought he’d seen such a thing. He tried to focus on it but at that moment, Rowan tightened around his cock and rolled his hips and all thoughts that didn’t pertain to the feeling in his dick disappeared as Rowan rode him. Rowan smiled down as he ground their bodies together and Dean gave in, his eyes rolling into the back of his head as his body succumbed to pleasure.

The dreaminess of an epic orgasm running through his already overtired body, Dean pulled Rowan as close as he could and closed his eyes. When he awoke, they were in Paris and the SNCF agent in charge of clearing the train was banging on the door. Without a word spoken, both Dean and Rowan laughed as they pulled on their clothes, yanked open the door and ran off the train, and into the Gare de Lyon, their hands locked together the whole way. Dean felt lighter than he had in some time, holding Rowan’s hand and laughing like a child; he honestly didn’t know he was still capable of it.

Rowan tugged Dean into a tiny cafe for coffee while Dean contacted the Baroness’ manager (the only contact information he had for her) to make sure she was still aware that he was coming, though she did not know why.

“Bonjour. Je m’appelle Dean Winchester,” Dean started in broken, high school French while Rowan giggled at him and the manager on the other end of the phone cleared their throat.

“You do not have to speak French, but I appreciate the effort, Monsieur Winchester. We have been waiting to hear from you. The Baroness is looking forward to your visit and hopes that you will attend her at your earliest convenience?” Dean rolled his eyes and started calculating the quickest route to Le Malais from the train station.  
“On the corner of Rue de Roi de CÉcilie and Rue du Bourg Tibourg. Above la pharmacie. Ring for me and I shall answer and lead you to the Baroness. Au Revoir.”

“I shall see you shortly, madame.” Dean hung up and turned to Rowan, sipping his espresso unhurriedly.

“I have to go. Apparently Alastair made a specific appointment for me but conveniently forgot to tell me the time.” Rowan smiled up at Dean over the lip of his cup.

“Why don’t you give me the address? I’ll finish here and meet you there when I’m done. I’ll find a nice bench and read ‘til you’re finished?”

Dean paused, tugging the strap of his bag and patting his pockets looking for his lighter again. “Are you sure?” He mumbled around the unlit cigarette between his lips.

Rowan stood and plucked the cigarette from Dean’s lips, pressing a kiss there before handing the cigarette back along with Dean’s lighter, produced seemingly from mid-air. 

“I’m not ready to leave yet, I love to people-watch in Paris. Plus, I doubt that the Baroness will welcome me into her home along with you so there is no reason for me to rush. Give me the address. I will take my time and find a cozy spot in a cafe nearby when I get there. I’ll text you so you know where I am.” Another kiss and Rowan dipped back into his seat with a tiny smile on his pink lips.

Every time Rowan kissed him Dean felt like he’d been drugged somehow. It wasn’t a bad feeling, not in the slightest, but it was all consuming. It was like he forgot what he was doing, who he was and why anything aside from Rowan’s kisses were important.

He lit his cigarette and pulled his phone out to text Rowan the directions he’d been given.

“Text me when you find a comfy spot.” Dean turned and began walking before he let himself get pulled back into Rowan’s smile and his drugging kisses.

“A toute a l’heure, Dean Winchester!’ Rowan yelled after him and despite himself, Dean laughed and waved behind him. He quickly adopted the fast paced, barrel-down walk of ‘a man on a mission’ and made the 30 minute walk in under twenty. The only time that he stopped to look up was when he passed the Bastille. Something about that building giving him the shivers.

He arrived at the door and rang for the Baroness’ manager, trying to slow his breathing and hoping that he didn’t smell too horribly from the exertion of running across Paris.

The baroness’ manager was an elderly woman with rom-rod straight posture and a facial expression that made one think of a disapproving nun.

“My lady is waiting to attend you in the salon. Suivez moi.” Dean tried not to gape too much as he was led through the apartments but the Baroness was known as the foremost collector and translator of occult lore in the world, specifically in reference to one character, the devil, and as Dean was led through the apartment he saw priceless works of art that he’d only read about.

The manager gestured Dean into a room and pulled the door shut behind them. He looked around the brightly lit room to see a writing desk with an old-fashioned typewriter and stacks of notebooks. The walls were covered in bookcases that were full to the brim. Surely, there was some kind of organization that Dean himself couldn't grasp at the moment. And lounging decadently on a chair beneath a large window was the Baroness herself, Abaddon.

She was beautiful, of course, with silky red curls and a perfectly made up face. Blood red lipstick and nails were fairly inconsistent with her simple yet obviously expensive tee-shirt and blue-jeans. She was also a lot younger than Dean expected and it was that thought that must have shown on his face as he walked towards her. She got up from her chair with a bright, white smile and delighted laugh.

“I swear to you, I simply became interested when I was very young. There are no dead servant girls in the back room so that I may bathe in their blood; I am not the reincarnation of Elizabeth Bathory, though we do have other things in common.” Abaddon shook Dean’s hand and gestured for him to sit across from her. “Are you hungry or thirsty? Should I have Mathilde bring you something?”

“No, no, thank you, my lady. I was wondering if I might be allowed to see your copy of the Nine Doors? On behalf of my employer, Alastair?” 

Abaddon sat back in her chair with a pout and took a deep breath. “Right to business then, no fun first?”

“I apologize, Baroness. My employer has recently pressed on me that there is a bit of a time constraint on his end of this scenario, leaving very little time for pleasantries, I’m afraid.”

“Mmm, yes, I’m well aware of Alastair and his feelings on taking the time for pleasantries. Anyway, he’s not here and you’re asking to see my copy of the Nine Doors? To….”

Dean hesitated. Crowley hadn’t asked these kinds of questions but he’d been wholly preoccupied at the time. He could feel Abaddon’s sharp eyes on him, looking to catch the physical signs of a lie and he began to feel sweat prickling at his scalp from the scrutiny. 

“I’m sure you’re aware that Piero DiStampare said while he was burning at the stake--that there existed only one copy of his book. And yet, we have three copies in the world today. Alastair’s copy, your copy and the late Duke Crowley’s copy. Alastair has set me the task of finding which of the three is the authentic one.”

“Well, mine is the authentic one of course. My family has had it since the late 1700’s and I can trace its authenticity. However- wait-” Abaddon paused and held up a perfectly manicured hand, “Did you say the late Duke Crowley? I hadn’t heard about this?” Dean wasn’t sure what to say; he’d thought that it would have made its way through the social circles these people inhabited within 24 hours.

“Well, you see, there seems to have been a fire at his vineyard palazzo. I’m sorry to have given you the news like this, I assumed that people would have heard of it already, even though it was just two nights ago.”

“And how did you hear about it so quickly, Mister Winchester?” Abaddon reached out and dragged a blood-red nail down the back of Dean’s hand.

“I had the misfortune of being there right before it happened. When I left my hotel the next morning, we could still see the smoke…” He trailed off, suddenly and unexpectedly emotional about it when he hadn’t been at all when it happened. He also realized his slip up, using we instead of I in the last part of the retelling. He hoped in the emotion of it all, Abaddon wouldn’t notice.

“And was there…” Abaddon prompted and Dean swallowed hard to move on in the retelling.

“Nothing left of his collection, no. Everything was ash and ruins when we got there.” He tried to make his voice sound final, like he would not say any more on the matter. He tried to bring the conversation back around. “To the matter of your copy? Would you mind if I examined it for a little while? I don’t require privacy and I’ve brought my own tools, and even my own gloves if you’d like me to use them?”

Abaddon stood abruptly, standing close enough to the chair that Dean occupied, their legs briefly brushing together.

“Yes, of course. Come, I’ll take you to the reading room and I can take some notes of my own while you work.” She led him down a small, tight hallway through a door that was hidden behind her writing desk. They emerged into another small, bright room filled with books but Dean could tell instantly that these books were different than the ones collected in the Solar.

“Do you recall, since it was just a few moments ago, that I said my infatuation with the devil began when I was very young? To be perfectly frank, I was 12. The devil appeared to me. He appeared to me and he was beautiful. I fell in love instantly. He told me to devote my life to the study of him and that one day he would reappear to me and take me with him to hell. That I could be his forever.”

Dean sat down and began to pull some of his notes out of his bag, his blood running cold as Abaddon continued to speak.

“He would keep me young and beautiful forever as his queen of hell. Do you believe me?” Abaddon was back next to Dean, holding out to him a considerably more tattered and well-loved copy of the Nine Doors than he’d seen before, but the five raised lines on the spine and the golden pentacle gave away the identity of the book immediately. He took the book gingerly, noting the post-it notes and ripped notebook papers sticking out from between the pages.

“This is one of my favorite books, since it’s provenance is so intriguing. Printed with the permission of the superiors? The nine wood carvings with their printers signatures varying the way they do? The idea that I would say the spell in the right way and summon a door to take me right to my love?” Abaddon shook with a smile on her face, as though she were pleasantly chilled by something.

“Why haven’t you opened the door and gone to him?” Dean tried to ask casually as he opened to the first woodcarving to compare it to the two he’d seen already.

“He told me not to. He promised me that he would come to me when it was time, but if I disturbed him by trying to come to him early, then I would not get my reward.”

Dean nodded as though he understood exactly what she was saying, then turned towards his notes; his shorthand copy of the notes. Abaddon, he was certain, would do everything that she could to ensure that she had just as much information as he did by the time he left.

He lost himself in the comparisons and the note taking and it was shockingly difficult not to lose himself in the Baroness’ handwritten notes throughout the book, but he tried to stay on task.

His phone buzzed when he was finishing his notes on the seventh woodcut and he took a break to stretch his neck and back while he checked his message.

\--_ Outside. Benny is dead. I am sorry. _\-- Attached was a link to an Italian news story about a brutal strangling at Benny’s shop. Dean had known Benny for a lot of years; they were friends and occasional lovers. This was not like hearing about Crowley’s death which had a reflexive sadness to it. This was instant and deep grief. 

He wandered over towards the nearest window while he read the article. The community was shocked and saddened. No one had anything negative to say about Benny, though he was a foreigner and one that had been in trouble with the law in the past. The Polizia di Milano were searching for someone in connection with the brutal murder, the last person to have been seen with Mr. LaFitte before his death; Dean Winchester.

In shock, Dean dropped his phone on the plush carpet in front of the window and looked outside with unseeing eyes. He was now wanted by the police. The Italian Police were just as corrupt as the government but it wouldn’t take long for them to figure out that he’d been the last person to see the Duke before he was found dead and his house burned to the ground as well. His heart rate picked up as he began to work through his panic; he still had a job to do and if he could finish it and get back to England, it would all be solved, somehow. He tried to focus on the old trick that his mother taught him when he was panicked; three things that he could see, four things that he could touch, five things he could smell. He looked out the window and down towards the street when he forgot about the rest of his mission; there on a bench in the dubious Parisian shade was Rowan, shoes off and book held up in front of his face. He laughed and bent to pick up his phone when Abaddon appeared next to him; he hadn’t even noticed she’d left the room.

“What is so funny, Dean?” She was pressed close enough that he could smell her expensive shampoo and perfume and feel her breasts pressed up against his back.

“Just.. life. Life is funny sometimes.” He turned and took a step to the side to bring some space between them, “I’m very nearly done with your book and will be able to get out of your apartment soon.”

“Don’t rush on my account. Even if it’s just the scratch of a pen on paper and the whisper of flipping pages, it’s nice to have company sometimes. And such attractive company at that.” This time when Abaddon smiled at him, Dean was reminded of her self comparison to Elizabeth Bathory earlier, and he no longer wondered what the two of them had in common, as she’d said. He could see in her eyes what the Baroness and the Blood Countess had in common and it frightened him.

He ducked his head and sat back down, flipping the book slowly to the eighth woodcut when there was a loud noise from the other side of the door leading back to the solar. Abaddon got up and headed that way, “Excuse me for just one moment?” She stepped through the door and closed it behind her when Dean’s phone buzzed again. 

\---_ You have to get out of there. I think she or her maid called the police. They’re coming. _\--- Dean stood so fast that his chair fell backwards to the floor and he cursed the loud noise. He cursed himself for not paying closer attention to how to get out of this tiny, hidden room through the maze of apartment. He ran to the window and peeked out to see Rowan unerringly looking right up at him and gesturing for him to hurry.

He heard another, louder sound from behind the door and glanced over that way to see smoke coming through the crack underneath the door.

In a panic, he shoved open the window and popped his head out to see how bad the drop to the ground was going to be. He could see the flickering lights of Gendarmerie vehicles coming towards the apartment and when he turned towards the table he could see that the room was filling wish smoke faster than he expected. He shoved everything from the table into his shoulder bag, including Abaddon’s copy of the Nine Doors.

“Catch!” He tossed his bag down to Rowan, who caught it but somehow managed to hit himself in the face in the process. “Sorry, it’s heavy!” He yelled, kicking a leg out over the window ledge as he looked to see if there was anything he could jump to instead of going two stories down. There was an awning a few feet to the left and without thinking too hard, Dean shoved himself off the wall towards it. As he landed and crashed through the awning as it barely slowed his decent, he realized that there was a reason it was a stupid stunt mostly seen in cartoons. He hit the ground hard enough to scrape the skin on his arms and jar his shoulder out of the socket but he didn’t think anything was broken. In a panic, he giggled as Rowan helped to pull him off the ground. 

“Don’t try this at home kids. Bugs Bunny only.”

“What? How hard did you hit your head? Nevermind, we have to go. Surely the Gendarmes have a photo of you. C’mon, I got us overnight tickets to London after I saw the article about Benny.” Rowan tugged Dean along with him but Dean was having a hard time keeping his feet. Even as willowy as Rowan was, surely he could take some of Dean’s weight, right? Just until things started to make sense again?

“No, come on, you have to walk on your own. I can’t do any of this for you. I’ve already broken the rules by giving you as much information as I have. I don’t need you to be disqualified.” Dean squinted up at Rowan in the fading light of the afternoon, the sirens and flashing lights fading into the distance behind them. “You have to walk a little father, then we can get a taxi if you need one. We have to get out of La Malais.”

“You don’t make any sense.” Dean whined, trying to get his feet under him but Rowan was walking so fast that he felt a bit like he was gliding over the ground. His head was spinning and his shoulder and scraped up left arm was throbbing in time with his heartbeat. Dean wanted to sit down; to try and process the panic he could feel licking at the edge of his brain. He told as much to Rowan.

“If you even try to sit down before we get to the train I will never forgive you, do you understand me?” Dean blinked, chastised, and nodded, focusing harder on making his legs and feet work correctly so that he could keep up with Rowan and make it to the train.

Eventually, they made it, checking into their own, private cabin where they shut and locked the door and pulled the blinds closed. It was enough of a reminder of what happened the last time they’d been closed into a compartment together that Dean felt his cock begin to harden despite the pain his body was in. Rowan noticed and laughed.

“Maybe, once we get you cleaned up we will have time for that. First, I think I have to pop your shoulder back into place, no?”

Dean wanted to disagree, but he could feel that his shoulder was out of place and his body was simply screaming ‘WRONG” at him so he nodded. Rowan stood behind him and grasped his arm just below the joint.

“This is going to hurt. On three?” Dean nodded and took a few deep breaths, trying to slow his breathing so that he didn’t pass out.

“One, two” Rowan counted then pulled Dean’s arm back and he heard as much as felt it pop back together. Dean sagged into Rowan’s strong grip for a moment, trying to breathe through the pain as it receded. The throbbing was still there but the pain was lessening and as it did, Dean was able to catalogue nearly 100 other places that he was hurting.

“I have a small first aid kit in my backpack, if you think you can sit without falling down now?” Rowan asked and Dean groaned but nodded as he helped him down into the seat. Rowan turned to dig through his bag, pulling a handful of cheap paperback novels out and placing them on the seat next to Dean as he did so.

“I, Lucifer. The Devil in Love. For Love of Evil. The Witches of Eastwick. You sure do seem to have a type, considering you told me that you read everything back when we first met.” Dean laughed and then hissed as Rowan silently began cleaning the scrapes along his arm from where he jumped from the window of the Baroness’ apartment.

“I do like to read everything, but sometimes you just feel in the mood for a certain subject. Haven’t you ever felt like that?” Rowan asked softly, dabbing the cuts with antibiotic cream. Dean thought about his brief infatuation with the British Royals and then the Russian Revolution, when he read every non-fiction book he could get his hands on. He looked up into Rowan’s strange grey eyes and nodded, feeling a smile break over his face when Rowan smiled at him.

“You are strange but I like it.” Dean mumbled. Rowan’s smile stretched until his dimples showed.

“That’s good, Dean, because I think you are weird and I like you too.” Dean tilted his head up and kissed the smile off Rowans lips, breaking away with a hiss when Rowan grabbed his hip and found some more bruising and abrasion.

“Well, hah, I guess we were heading this way but for a different reason. Take off your pants, Dean.” Rowan pulled back and helped him to unbutton his jeans and gently shifted him from side to side until they could slide the jeans down and off his legs together. The denim had taken some of the worst of the impact with the ground but on his left hip and leg there were some bruises beginning to bloom as well as a few small scrapes that needed the antibiotic cream just like his arm had. Dean sat quietly though Rowans ministering, the adrenaline wearing off and leaving him tired, mentally and physically.

“You’re bleeding,” Dean slurred when Rowan looked up at him with twin lines of bright red blood coming from his nostrils and streaking down his face. With an odd, almost questioning expression, Rowan wiped at his own blood with his fingertips, smearing it across his face before he brought the bloody fingertips to Dean’s forehead and dragged them across his skin.

“What-” Dean began to ask but was cut off by Rowan slipping into his lap and grinding down on him. Dean threw his head back and hissed, this time in pleasure as he gripped Rowan’s slim hips and moved helped him grind down. They rubbed off on each other like two teens, kissing over and over as Rowan’s nose continued to bleed all over both of them. Dean could taste Rowan’s blood in his mouth and though that was something that he would usually stop things to attend to, he couldn’t stop and didn’t want to stop.

When the train stopped in London, Dean’s phone began to buzz repeatedly with incoming text messages as they tried to clean themselves up enough to be presentable outside the private bubble of their cabin.

“Someone is impatient to get in touch with you,” Rowan commented as he slipped on his sneakers and pulled the strap of his backpack up over one shoulder. They exited the cabin together, making their way off the train and into the station, and Dean pulled his phone out to check his messages. All of them were from Alastair, demanding to know where he was, what was going on and when would Dean be back in England. Before he had a chance to type out a reply, his phone was ringing.

“Dean, where are you?”

Dean looked up to get his bearings and realized that Rowan was nowhere to be seen. He panicked for a few heartbeats and then calmed down; he knew Rowan was in London and he had Rowan’s cell phone number. Plus, it would probably be best if Alastair didn’t meet Rowan or ever, really, know about his existence.

“Victoria Station. Can’t be more specific than that at the moment.”

“Well, Dean, the BBC tells me that you are a dangerous criminal, wanted in connection with at least four murders and two arsons, across two countries. Best be careful to hide that pretty face of yours.”

Dean ducked down into the collar of his coat and made his way towards what he thought was an exit. “I didn’t, that wasn’t me. I would never,” Dean stuttered into the phone and Alastair laughed, raising the goosebumps on the back of Dean’s neck.

“My dear Dean, I know that. You can get your hands dirty, yes, but you couldn’t get your hands bloody. Make your way to Bridge Place by the Hesperia Hotel. There will be a car waiting for you. You’ll know it when you see it.” With that, Alastair hung up. 

Dean looked around and made his way outside cautiously, keeping his eyes down and his head tilted so that he wouldn’t cause a scene by bumping into someone (British sensibilities being what they are) but he wouldn't walk into traffic either. When he made it the Bridge Place as saw the hotel looming, he scanned the street looking for a car that he would know immediately even if he’d not seen it before. Then, there she was at the curb, looking like a dream.

A gleaming 1967 Black Chevy Impala. One he’d seen in Alastair’s garage more than once. He’d begged to drive it, or failing being trusted with the keys, at least to ride it in more than once. Sadly, this was pretty much the one thing that Alastair consistently denied him; access to the car of his dreams.

From the drivers side appeared not Alastair himself but Meg, one of the few of Alastair’s employees that Dean knew and didn’t despise. They enjoyed each other’s wit and sarcasm and each of them drew great enjoyment from giving each other shit. With a sarcastic grin, Meg opened the front passenger door for him and bowed inelegantly.

“Master Winchester, how lovely to see you again, shithead. Alastair says to let you sit up front so you can see real close how awesome this car that you’ll never have is.” With a one fingered, American salute of his middle finger, Dean slid onto the leather bench seat and yanked his leg in just in time to avoid getting hit with the door as Meg slammed it closed.

“Meg, you hag, it’s been ages since I’ve seen you. I see that the surgery to replace your hooves with hands was a success; you can drive a car now! Amazing!” Dean paused for effect, then added, “It’s a shame they weren’t able to do anything about your face, though.”

Meg laughed as she pulled into London traffic and they traded good-natured jabs back and forth for the first bit of the drive. A bump in the road made Dean place a protective hand on top of his shoulder bag where it rested in his lap.

“I hope you’re bringing him what he wants.” Meg added somberly, and Dean saw her cut her eyes towards the bag in his lap before she turned them back to the road.

“How’s he been?” Dean asked instead of answering and Meg sighed.

“Weird. Scary. More sadistic than usual. We’ve had two housekeepers quit in the last 2 days.” Dean nodded absently and let the rumble of the Impala’s engine lull him a bit; he wasn’t tired but he was disquieted. 

Meg pulled up to the country house and cut the engine, the two of them sitting there and listening to the clicking of the cooling engine.

“Take care of yourself, Dean. Watch your back. I can’t go back in there with him. Not now, and maybe not ever.” Meg looked uncharacteristically emotional and it made Dean pause in getting out of the car. He turned towards her and cocked his head in question, since he felt like he was supposed to be asking something but didn’t know the right words.

“Look. Just. Know that I’m pulling for you in this, okay?” Meg leaned over and placed the keys to the Impala into his hand. “Don’t let him know I gave you those.” Then Meg got out of the car and began walking towards the edge of the property, a purpose in her stride. Dean watched her for a moment, then shoved the keys down into his pocket and steeled himself to head into the house.

As soon as he stepped inside, he knew that something was wrong. The furniture was overturned, the art missing or destroyed on the walls. Dean followed a trail of candles and strange runes through the house from the front door to a small courtyard, where he found Alastair and the last of his house staff.

Rather, the bodies of the last of the house staff. It was clear to Dean now, looking at the mangled and bloodied bodies strewn around the courtyard, that the runes he’d followed were painted in the blood of these poor people. He choked down the bile in the back of his throat and cast his gaze around the space, taking in the blood splatter and increasingly sloppy runes and symbols. He saw candles flickering on every free surface, though why they were flickering with no wind at all in the small space, he couldn’t say.

Finally, he found Alastair behind what was once a decorative hedge but was now a mess of blood and bent branches. Alatair’s eyes looked pure white in the glow of the candles.  
“Dean, you have Abaddon’s book?” Dean nodded, looking around and seeing that Alastair was in some kind of pentagram with additional symbols at each point of the star. Along with that, he was also surrounded by the torn out woodcarvings from both his and, Dean was now certain, Crowley’s books. Without looking closer, he was certain that the ones surrounding Alastair were the ones that had been created but not carved by LF. Hesitantly, he pulled Abaddon’s copy of the book out of his bag and handed it to Alastair from as far away as he could get.

“You’re fortunate that you get to see this Dean. That you arrived now instead of before now, when you would have had to be sacrificed like all these other…” Alastair waved his hand at the dead bodies of his staff, “useless chattel. Give me the book so that I can have the final three illustrations.” Alastair snatched the book from Dean’s hand and Dean took a stumbling step backwards.

“You have figured it out now, right? There was one complete book left behind, but split across three copies. The words are insignificant, unnecessary. The only thing that matters are the carvings, instructions from Lucifer himself on how to open a gate to hell.” Alastair ripped the pages out of the third and final book and placed them at particular spots around his circle. As Dean watched, frozen with indecision if he should stay or run screaming, Alastair began to chant.

The language seemed vaguely familiar to Dean, though if someone asked him what it was, he would never be able to say. He watched as Alastair went, in order, turning towards the woodcarving, saying something and then reaching out and touching the picture with one blood-covered finger before moving to the next one. Slowly, so slowly, that Alastair would not notice the movement so close to him, Dean reached into his bag, hand blindly searching for the woodcarving that he’d taken from a shelf in Benny’s shop. When he touched it, he stopped moving and smiled knowing that Alastair was going to fail. 

The ninth and final woodcarving, the correct one that would open the gate, was still in Dean’s possession.

Alastair reached the ninth picture and his chanting reached a fevered pitch. When he finished the ninth repetition, he held his arms out and lifted his face to the sky. “It’s me, the most loyal. The only one who could have figured it out. I am the only one that is worthy of being the Consort. The game is ended.”

For a few heartbeats, there was silence. Then a giant CRACK of thunder and the Evergreen oak in the center of the courtyard seemed to explode into fire. Before Dean could even cover his ears, he heard a deep voice saying “NO” loud enough that he felt the sound of it in his stomach. Dean dropped to the ground and rolled towards the stone house and as far away from the fire and Alastair as he could. 

Alastair began to scream, an unholy sound that made Dean want to look at what was happening as much as he wanted to puncture his eardrums so that he would never hear that sound again. The morbid curiosity of him won and he opened his eyes. It looked as though Alastair’s bones were breaking from within, one at a time. His body twisted and twitched and his limbs were pointing in the wrong directions. A burning branch of the oak tree fell and crushed Alastair, bringing with it sudden silence.

Dean stood, knowing that he had to get away from that fire as quick as he could. Across the courtyard, near another door to the house, stood Rowan, smiling at him. Rowan waved a hand and the flames went out. They stared at each other across the silent space, the smoke dissipating as though it had never been there and suddenly, Dean knew what he had to do.

With only a slight tremble in his fingers, he pulled the final woodcut from his bag. He licked his lips and whispered across the large space, “Do I have to do the whole ritual?” 

Rowan smiled and shook his head, cocking his hip and tilting his head as though to say, “I’m waiting.” Dean looked down at the print in his hand, instantly seeing the difference between what he was holding and what had been in the other books. In the illustration in his hand, the castle was not on fire, it was glowing. And the door was not shut, it was open. Leading down into the dark. The final difference was the beautiful woman on the dragon, she was smiling. He looked up from the smiling woman into the smiling eyes of Rowan who began to glow.

Like another lightning bolt, Dean remembered everything, and Rowan (who he now knew looked an awful lot like his little brother during his twink days) dissolved away before his very eyes to leave his actual little brother, Sam Winchester the King of Hell standing in his place.

Dean looked around once again, knowing now that he was seeing the aftermath of his trial to be worthy of his title of Beloved Dark Consort. He spat at the remains of Alastair and stepped over them so that he could throw himself into his brother’s arms and accept the kisses and praise that he so rightfully deserved.

“That was seriously fucked up, little brother.” Dean groaned as Sam lifted him into his strong arms. Dean opened his mouth to suck on Sam’s neck, his whole body burning with their closeness, as it had for years. 

Sam had been ‘crowned’ the boy-king nearly a decade before and his first act was to take his brother with him. Dean had been unofficial Dark Consort since Sam took the throne but due to the bureaucracy of running hell and getting the damn demons in line, it was a decade before he could be tested, as all dark consorts were. The test was vaguely outlined, he was simply told that he would have to prove himself worthy but he would not have any of his memories. He would be wiped clean and given new memories, a new life, that didn’t include anything other than his name for familiarity.

The last thing he recalled before the fake memories took over was being ass up on their bed, with Sam’s giant cock filling him so good that he could feel it in his throat. Then he recalled waking up as the other Dean Winchester in bizarro-land, with fake memories and a life with no Sam but evil around every corner.

“Fuck, s’like my body reset to the exact second I saw you last, little brother. Need you.” Dean twisted his head and sucked on Sam’s bobbing Adam’s apple as he ground his cock into Sam’s stomach. “Claim your consort,” Dean whined, squeezing his legs even tighter around Sam’s tiny waist. He blinked and felt his eyes go the distinctive, inky black of all demons.

“Jesus. Just like this, in front of all the dead people?” Sam whispered back. Dean could hear the smile on Sam’s lips and knew he was being teased and decided to do a little teasing of his own.

“Why not? We’ve fucked in front of dead people before? We’ve fucked on your goddamn throne in front of everyone who wanted audience with you that day. In fact, I think you kept me there, showing me off as a cock-warmer that day, didn’t you?” Dean loosened his grip and wiggled out of Sam’s arms ‘til his feet hit the ground and kept going until he was on his knees. He reached up and palmed the clear hard-on in Sam’s jeans, feeling his mouth fill with saliva as he leaned forward to rub his face on it.

“Remember that day, little brother? How you told me to call you my king as you kept me speared on your cock all day? How you kept me hard and wanting, my cock drooling so much that we had to ask for a towel for underneath the throne?” Dean’s deft fingers popped the button on Sam’s jeans and let the heft of Sam’s cock push open the fly. Sam’s long, fat cock fell out of the fly of his jeans, the tip of it landing to slap across Dean’s lips.

“Don’t you remember that, little brother? What’s a little blood and dead bodies to us, huh? The smell of torn flesh and spilled blood and burnt bodies is nothing to us, right Sammy?” Just as Dean was about to wrap his lips around the tip of Sam’s weeping cock, he felt a huge hand palm his head and fingers twine through his hair, pulling him upwards. Sam’s eyes were galaxy-fire color as he stared at Dean.

“Call me Your Majesty."

**Author's Note:**

> ******SPOILERS*******  
amnesia! Dean, semi-Dub con as he does not know who Rowan is but they have a relationship, blood play, boyking Sam, consort!Demon Dean, exhibitionism, mistaken identity, dead people all along the way, Dean is bottom with Sam, top with Rowan... but topping from the bottom, does that even really count?  
Based on the book the Club Dumas by Artero Perez-Reverte


End file.
